Instinct
by V.9.5
Summary: 'There is an instinct in any mother to make the child that needs her love the most, her own.' Over time, England and Russia come together, mother and child united once more in the oddest, and loneliest, of people. No slash.
1. An act of kindness

**So here we are at the start of a new story! I've had this idea stirring around for a while now, and I wanted to try this format of quote then story. The chapters are linked to each other but explore separate ideas. At this point I have no idea how long it's going to be, although as of 20/06/18 I've written 6 chapters... IDK if there will be a real plot, I just wanted to see more mother!England with Russia. Please favourite and follow, and comment!**

* * *

'You never give up motherhood. Once you are a mother, you never stop being one, no matter what.'

* * *

It started with a blanket.

The night was cold and windy, and in the hotel rooms, many nations slept peacefully, or worked quietly. England was not one of these nations, instead slipping silently through the corridors, pausing every so often and peeking through one of the doors. He would nod, satisfied, or frown and enter, leaving a few minutes later, but his routine didn't change. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders as he padded around quietly, checking in on his former colonies.

Not that they knew of this, of course. The blanket or pillow that mysteriously appeared under tired heads and heavy arms were dismissed or forgotten quite easily, the steaming cup of coffee/tea waiting on the counter of the meeting room was the work of the organisers. And still England walked, last to go to bed, first to rise in the morning, never complaining, silently serving and caring for his colonies - his children, because that's what they were - without a hint of resentment or bitterness.

He finished his daily rounds, ending with America. The boy still had his headphones plugged in, blasting out Beyoncé as he slept, a tangle of limbs and blankets on the bed. England gently removed the headphones, earning him a sleepy grumble, plugging his phone into the charger and tucking in the arm that was out of the covers. After making sure America was comfortable one last time, he slipped out - seeing France across the hall, stepping out of Seychelles's room. For once, no insults were thrown, no baguettes either. Instead the other nation winked at his long-time friend and partner, then continued down the hall. England scoffed, then turned to do the same.

A faint light made him draw up short. He turned, seeing a glow from one of the doors, automatically going towards it, hand on the door, ready to push it wide open when he stopped. Through the crack in the door, he could see Russia, head on his laptop and the desk lamp still on, very much asleep. He moved away, but his maternal instincts screamed as he did, and hoping that Russia wouldn't wake up and clobber him, he took a step into the room.

He approached a little warily, well aware that the giant nation could wake up any moment. Slowly, he slipped the blanket off his shoulders and around Russia, expertly lifting his head long enough to push the laptop away and slip a pillow retrieved from the bed underneath it. _That would help the ache he would have from such a bad sleeping position,_ England thought, unconsciously tucking the blanket around Russia's arms. He drew away, shutting the door with a soft click, going back to his own rooms.

In the morning, while the other nations cast off their blankets carelessly to the floor as they woke, Russia would draw his in a little closer, still feeling the faint warmth of England's body, and wondering who would do such a thing for him.


	2. Warmth

'Family is the warmth during cold moments.'

* * *

Russia missed warmth.

 _It is strange,_ he thought, _to miss something that I never had_. Mere snatches of other people's warmth - physical, spiritual, emotional - drifted by him, never for him, never with him. Yet he ached for that kind of love. He didn't used to. His first memories are of cold and darkness, of watching death before his young eyes. He only remembered terror in those early days, a drive for survival, living day by day. He remembered absolute hunger - a shrivelled stomach, parched tongue, unable to speak or move even as people beat him. His memories aren't clear of course - whose would be, at that age? But they are horrifying, scarring, and Russia prefers it fuzzy. He knows he never cried at night because no one would come. He knows he never asked, because no one would give. He knows he _must look at the ground, never make eye contact, lest you get beat -_

He shook out of his past at a loud yell. Of course, America, who else? Coincidentally, his longing began when he met America for the first time. He had been waiting to meet the upstart superpower, pacing up and down, wondering what first impression he would give. He had heard things - a nation barely out of revolution, the baby fat still fresh on his cheeks, climbing to power, but he hadn't really believed it. He had heard footsteps approaching, and the door was opened slightly, allowing him to hear the voices drifting through.

"And make sure you stand straight - no slouching, and keep the tie on through the meeting -"

"Angleterre you are smothering the poor boy."

"Yeah mom," came a muffled voice, then there was a yelp.

"Not even in the damn room yet and you're loosening your tie! Silly boy."

"I'm going in now," America said pointedly. The door opened a little more, and a tan hand appeared.

"All right. We love you," came two combined voices, spoken with such warmth, such human emotion, there was no denying the truth. America had parents. America had someone to call 'mom and dad'. America was loved and cared for by people who genuinely wanted him, treasured him.

Russia had felt rage spike within him, and though he wouldn't know it at the time, jealousy too. He settled for a stoic look on his face as America babbled on to him, then made a rude comment about children not knowing where they belonged. They had been enemies ever since.

What would America's first memories be like? He was born in a place of blue skies and golden fields. His first memories would be of England, gently sweeping him up into strong, warm arms. If he cried at night, France would appear with a bottle, a lullaby to soothe him back to sleep. If he got bored, Canada would play with him and he'd never be lonely.

He would never have to worry about where his next meal was coming from, or how many beatings he'd get, or if he'd even get to see the sunlight this week. All he would have to do is snuggle into England's warmth and let himself be comforted always.

Russia wondered what that would feel like, and felt colder than ever.


	3. Maternity

'Children are the anchors of a mother's life.'

* * *

England was, in the eyes of his colonies at least, maternal.

The man would deny it furiously, with maybe an insult or two if it was brought up by a certain frog, but he had a side to him that was soft, sweet, and solely reserved for those little colonies who would wail or cry for him, or equally, come toddling up to him, wanting to play or sit on his lap. To everyone else, he was a former empire with all of an empire's sass and fire, lacking only in the ability to cook, making up for it by being extra grumpy and unapproachable. Spain especially could account for the 'fire' part. (He never did get over the armada incident, to put it lightly). He was rude and brash, more often than not found pounding someone's face in (France) or chasing after someone to pound their face in (Prussia, Italy...). But when the curtains fell, and he was alone, he was entirely different.

He would fuss endlessly over Australia's many cuts from being an animal handler; he would scold Hong Kong for carrying (and setting off) one too many fireworks; he would smooth back Canada's hair with a kiss to the forehead, apologising for forgetting him. Little Wy was subject to his hair brushing, which was often awful and corrected by France a minute later. Peter, no matter how many times he called England a 'jerk' would happily soak up the attention of the older nation when he could spare it - and he was always darning their socks, or patching their clothes, or giving them new handkerchiefs he had made. America had got mad when he had patched up his ripped jeans, not realising that was the style, but the gesture was gentle, loving, maternal.

In truth, these were the things that made England, England. There was Pirate England, Punk England, Gentleman England - but all circulated back to a single England - mother England. If there were tears, he was bound to be there. If there was hurt, he was there. If there were fights, he'd break them up. No matter what his form, he would always come back to his anchor, his grounding base of caring, loving.

In the eyes of said colonies, he was the best, if a bit clumsy, mother they could ask for.


	4. Distant Touches

'A mother is the one who is still there when everyone else has deserted you.'

* * *

Russia remembered war.

He doesn't wake up screaming, he doesn't have a tremor or PTSD or whatever. Nations have had to face many wars, many traumatic events, so they are made of sturdier stuff, able to move on - or at least, process and understand what has happened to them. They have what humans might call, nerves of steel, although Russia's steel may be a little more cracked than others.

But the blood, pain and distant sounds of death were not on his mind. Instead he remembered something else, in the midst of war. He remembered a song crooned to him as he lay in the cold snow on the Eastern Front, his head pulled onto an impossibly warm lap. He remembered feeling calm, and safe, as arms enclosed him, still singing softly, even though he was on a battlefield. His eyes were bloody so he could barely see, but the distinctive yellow hair and green eyes told him who it was. He remembered England screaming for first aid as the medics swarmed the area, having pushed back the enemy.

It was the first time someone had ever done that for him, and remained the only time. England had not deserted him on the battlefield, even though France was captured and China was gone and America was not coming. England had held him, whispering, "Hold on, they're coming, they're coming, don't go dying on me now," as the medics got closer to their position. He had stayed to see Russia better (which had only taken a few days) before returning to his own land to support the effort there.

Russia supposed England didn't know Russia remembered. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness, half delirious at the time, babbling. But he remembered a slightly rough hand against his cheek, a feathered kiss on his forehead, and England's muttered, "What am I doing? He's not my son, I'm being absolutely mad..." whenever he completed that action.

What he'd do to have that touch again.


	5. To Relinquish

'The natural state of motherhood is unselfishness. Once you become a mother, you are no longer the centre of your own universe; you relinquish that position to your children.'

* * *

Russia knew he was different to the others. They all had blonde hair, skin that could tan in the summer, about the same height, wearing clothes that were mostly spring-suited. Or they were Asian, with dark hair and dark eyes, formal suits and polite greetings, carrying tradition on their shoulders, a wise air around them. Or they were southern, tan skin and brown eyes, short-sleeved, short-legged uniforms and the distinct smell of suncream.

He was freakishly tall, with white-coloured hair, the whitest skin you could ever have on a person that _didn't_ tan, and wore large jackets and scarves, even when he went to other places not quite so cold as his home. He had tried so hard to fit in, but he didn't, he just didn't, because he wasn't like them. His own people discussed whether he was more Asian or European - even he himself couldn't decide; although from the way they acted, neither group wanted anything to do with him anyway.

And then there was family. America was clearly related to Canada, and some members of the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth, whether related by blood or not, considered each other family as well (though most were). All of them however, had some English trait, their bloodline traced back to the former empire. Russia had no connections such as these on the earth, except for a sister who wanted to be European, and another who seemed determined to unite with him, despite both their sufferings. He was quite sure one day, Ukraine would go completely - after all, even his scarf had been given as an exchange to make Ukraine stronger. Belarus would remain, but even she was seeking other prospects, other people and - how long? How long would it be before he was alone in the world, with not a person to call family?

He watched England argue with France over some scones he had given Australia and New Zealand. Both younger nations were looking at the toxic waste with a mix of horror and disgust, poking the possibly radioactive pieces of food (if it could be called that!) gingerly. Yes it was toxic waste, it should be thrown in the bin or dumped in a rose pot to spare England's feelings, but it was made with love and affection, given so freely with a kiss to the head or a brushing of fingers over hair. Given unconditionally. He watched the island storm out, France's obnoxious laugh following him.

Not sure why, he jumped to his feet and followed, mostly unnoticed. He managed to catch England in the conference kitchen, standing by the kettle, teabag at the ready. England turned around and - _did Russia see a hint of softness in his gaze? No, he must be imagining it_ \- acknowledged him. "Russia, sorry to disrupt the meeting like that, I know it was your presentation next," he said politely.

"Why?"

"Well, I wanted a cuppa - "

"No. Why do you do those things for them, if they don't appreciate it?" Russia asked. England stared at him for a long time before answering.

"Because they're my babies," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "As their mother - _I mean_ , their parent, they have every right, every claim, to my care and affection. They, however, are not obligated to do the same... Besides, what kind of mother would I be if I didn't do all that for them?" He said the last part quietly, slipping up again in calling himself a mother.

"You should demand it," Russia countered. "They are your children after all."

"Oh Russia," England said, sounding half-amused, half like he was going to cry. "They are not _mine._ I am _theirs,_ and I always will be."

The kettle whistled.

 **17/07/2018: Thanks to guest reviewer who pointed out the mistake in my summary of the story. It has been accordingly changed.**


	6. Remembrance

'When your child is gone, you find your life forever divided into Before and After.'

* * *

England thought often where he went wrong.

He hadn't meant to push them all away. He just wanted to keep them close to himself, to love them forever, protect them from the world around them and know that they were safe forever. Maybe he wished too much after all.

He remembered America's bright baby laughter, Canada's curl bobbing in the breeze, he remembered holding onto Australia's small hands, helping him take a few steps forwards, New Zealand's head nestled against his chest, trusting and sleepy. He knew the feeling of a tiny hand wrapped around his finger, of small heads resting against his body, of a child's small arms wrapped around his neck.

They had that smell as well, the certain smell that all babies, all children had. Of soft white talcum powder, fresh cloth nappies, and the faint smell of urine. And later, smelling of grass, wind in their hair, and perhaps ladies perfume, from their nannies. And later still, like gunpowder, like parchment and ink, the bitter _taste of defeat still lingering -_

He stopped that thought right there. It would not do to think of such things before an important meeting like this - a climate change conference if he wasn't mistaken. He couldn't break down in tears or avoid his colonies for the entire meeting. He tightened his own tie a little more, gazing at his reflection in the mirror, making an attempt to pat his wild hair down.

The door creaked open and England looked around, surprised when a head of pale hair appeared. "Sir, do you think you could..." Russia looked up, looking equally dumbstruck. "Ah, I'm sorry, England, I thought you were..."

England's eyes fell to his unbuttoned cuffs. Without really thinking, he strode across the room and reached out, taking Russia's arm and doing them up for him, gently smoothing it off when he was finished. Russia's eyes did not leave his face the whole time.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Ah! That was a little inappropriate, Russia, I'm sorry, but it's done now I suppose," England said, stepping back, a light rose dusting his cheeks. Neither man said a word for a moment, silently soaking up what had just happened.

"I've never had anyone do this for me," Russia admitted softly. "Especially without asking anything in return. Thank you, England." Russia slipped out of the room.

Once he was far away enough, he lifted his arm to his mouth and breathed the faint smell of warmth in, knowing who gave him the blanket, and wondering why. Inside the room, England sat down and didn't say another word, trying to ignore his memories and the part of him that twitched at the chance to mother again, knowing his life didn't have to be before and after anymore.


	7. Lovingly Filled

'A baby fills a place in your heart that you never knew was missing.'

* * *

It was ridiculous, England decided, how powerful the simple act of fixing Russia's cuffs was. In the following days, he had to restrain himself multiple times from doing things - things like a gentle hand running through hair _(and Russia's hair looked so soft);_ a light tap on the forehead when he dozed _(because knowing Russia he'd probably get his arms ripped off);_ his fingers ached to reach out and brush that small crease in his scarf away. He groaned and put his head on the table, not bothering to listen to... whoever it was that was making a speech.

France, next to him, raised a plucked to perfection eyebrow and nudged him. "Angleterre, I know you need regular naps to stop being so cranky, but this isn't the time." He ignored the rage on England's face as he continued, deliberately baiting his longtime friend (and partner in raising children - though they would never admit it aloud). "What am I saying, perhaps it is beauty sleep, non? Perhaps you should aim for 24 hours of that-"

The meeting was postponed as a French man went hurtling out the window, Germany jogging down the steps to retrieve the wailing, overdramatic (and virtually unharmed) nation from the street. England sighed and brushed off the other nations, looking straight at Russia, who was gazing steadily at him.

Immediately, there was danger in the air. Even this meeting of eyes could have negative consequences for two nations meant to hate each other, or at least, not communicate with each other. But England held his gaze.

"Do you think," Russia murmured, quiet enough so only England could hear, "That you should hate someone on principle?"

He could turn away. He could snap at Russia, and let everyone know that they were talking. And yet, those violet eyes filled a place in his heart that he had long resigned to remaining empty forever. He tried to squash the feeling, tried to remove it, but it was filled so completely and perfectly it was impossible.

"No," he whispered back.

They had crossed the invisible line together.

 **30/07/18: I have written up to chapter 18, and a plot has developed! (though it's only 3 chapters long)**


	8. All-Seeing

'A mother understands what a child does not say.'

* * *

Russia, to put it lightly, felt like shit.

He wasn't sure what exactly had hit him so hard - was it the economic downturn? The western sanctions? Or was this just another reaction to his past, a way of dealing with it? It could therapeutic, as they say. Maybe afterwards he would feel better, lighter. He shook himself mentally and continued to walk down the corridor. He ignored America, trampled Canada (not that he knew it of course), dodged France... Crashing straight into England.

England, being smaller than him, took the brunt of the crash, flying to the ground with a yelp, his briefcase popping open and sending his notes scattering. America started laughing hysterically and walked off, not bothering to help his mentor (and mother-nation) making England grumble, and whack France as he attempted to scoop the nation into his arms. France huffed and sauntered off, then shrieked as he spotted his trampled baby Canada on the floor.

"England," Russia said, offering him a hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."

"It's fine, it's fine," England said, getting up, scooping up his briefcase and his notes, stuffing them haphazardly inside. He straightened up and paused. "Are you feeling well?" he asked, and his voice had dropped it's hard edge, Russia realised - he had not even known that England's voice could be so soft, so warm, so...

Motherly.

"I," he paused. "I feel a little ill," he admitted. England looked around, then stepped forwards and placed the back of his hand on Russia's forehead, the tension leaving his face to reveal a softer expression. "What are you...?"

"You've got a bit of a temperature," England said, as though he hadn't spoken. "You have a headache too... You should lie down for a while, it's probably caused by staring at that damn screen in the meeting room."

Russia hadn't even realised he had a headache, but now that England mentioned it, there was a slight pressure in his head. He remained silent and nodded, England's hand warm and comforting against his head. He almost cried out as England pulled away.

"I really must stop doing this," England said. "I know you're perfectly capable of looking after yourself, Russia. Please ignore me." His voice had regained the hard edge to it, and his brows furrowed again, making his eyebrows seem larger than life and intimidating. The tension returned and the moment was over - the intimidating, 'splendid isolation' England was back in business, marching past him.

Russia nodded, voice lost, not sure what to say, or what to make of the light hope that filled his heart - just knowing someone had _noticed._

 **09/08/18: Up to chapter 22 has been written. Also, anyone got any good quotes for inspiration? I'm kinda running out... There's only so much google you can use...**

 **12/08/18: damn I'm sorry, that was meant to go on my other story account, sorry sorry sorry!**


	9. Moving Forwards (as time tells us)

'To raise a child who is comfortable to leave you means you've done your job. They are not ours to keep, but to teach them to soar on their own.'

* * *

It took England a long time to understand why they had left him alone.

Why wouldn't it? He was still a new mother then, slowly working out how to handle rebellious teenagers and crying children, while balancing the work of an empire on top of it. He hadn't thought that they would be any different growing up. They would still be waiting for him to visit, to bring them new riches and more importantly for them, new toys (lovingly made) and they would play all day in the sun and never worry about a thing, while England watched, and felt a peace like no other.

He himself had grown up alone, so alone. He didn't have anybody, constantly having to fight and kill and die so many times just to be able to wake up and restart the cycle. As far as he remembered, his childhood was not a childhood. He had grown up so fast, that by the time he had an established monarchy he was already entering his early twenties, surprising even France, who had remained younger in body than him. (And boy, did he have fun with that!)

If he dug, really dug, he could almost feel his mother's arms around him, humming a lullaby he sang to his own children, half remembered, fully soothing. He had sworn that his colonies - his _babies_ \- would have a full childhood, full of play and happiness, far away from the war and death he was still encountering as an empire. He made sure that every night they had soft sheets and a plumped pillow, faces peppered with kisses and ears full of whispered 'I love yous' as they drifted into dreams, no doubt full of more play and excitement.

So when they had decided they wanted to grow up, he had been amused, then incredulous, then horrified as they called for wars and death and destruction. He couldn't fathom why they would leave the security of his arms, why they would hold guns and shoot and be shot at, why they would expose themselves to all the miseries of being a country, of being alone. He just couldn't understand why.

He knew now. It was because of that security, those lullabies, those kisses and hugs, that they wanted to grow up. They were sure that their metaphorical wings could spread and fly, and if they couldn't, of course mummy would swoop in and catch them. They were comfortable leaving him because they knew everything he could teach them. They knew all that he knew about being a nation.

It still hurt, and it always would, to a degree. He understood that his babies had to move forwards. He was their beginning, but they needed to make their own stories now, their own lives, and to do that, they had to leave him at the opening pages of their lives, and turn to the next one.

But he'd always be there, concealed in the corners of the page, between the written words, in the margins, imprinted forever on their lives. And that, that thought, gave him peace.

 **22/08/18: Ack! Sorry! It was Eid the other day so I got caught up in festivities... Late Eid Mubarak to you all!**


	10. A song of nations

'The truth is, no matter how old we are, we want our mother...'

* * *

Cold fear gripped him as he ran. Russia wasn't sure who he was running from, but he was terrified and - _Oh God, they were getting closer_ \- he just wanted them to go away. He wanted to stop running but there was nothing else for him to do, if he wanted to live - _could he feel their breath on his neck?_ \- he had to keep going, even though he was exhausted and wanted to cry.

His pipe was gone, as was his coat, and his scarf was bunched in fear around his neck, afraid to trail behind him in case they got him - _was that a growl? How many of them were there?_ \- and he kept going, not sure where he was running, but hoping wherever it was would be salvation, or at least, a painless end.

He screamed loudly as finally, the darkness closed in and he was dead -

* * *

England had been doing his nightly rounds, once again slipping out of America's room, stretching as he glanced over at Russia's room. The door was shut today, but England debated just checking in on him. It wouldn't do any harm would it? Then he mentally smashed his head against a wall. Russia was an adult who could look after himself. No matter he was the same age as America... No matter he looked so young... and so lost sometimes...

England growled, shaking his head. France chuckled across the corridor as he exited Seychelles's room and England idly thought about throwing him out the window again - no, that wouldn't do, he didn't want to cause a ruckus and wake up his babies after all. Besides, he got some satisfaction from the limp the wine bastard had from earlier that week.

"AHHHHHHHH!"

His head whipped around, and after checking it wasn't one of his colonies, he turned back, meeting France's worried eyes as he ran back down the corridor towards England, who already had one foot in Russia's room as others came bursting out of their rooms, weapons at the ready. He saw the thrashing nation, who was screaming in his sleep, and he jumped into action. France was a step behind him, then Germany. "Help me hold him down! He'll hurt himself!" England shouted.

Germany and France ran forwards and grabbed his arms and legs respectively, grunting a little with effort. America had arrived by now, and stood over his enemy, looking alarmed. He slapped his cheeks. "Russia! Russia, dude, wake up!"

"NOOOOOO! DON'T HURT ME PLEASE! I CAN'T TAKE ANYMORE, NOOOOO!"

America looked flabbergasted, withdrawing his hands. The other nations gathered at the door immediately looked pityingly on Russia, lowering their weapons. Lichtenstein, who had begun to weep at Russia's convulsions and begging, was promptly removed by Switzerland. China also looked on the verge of tears as he walked into the room, at a loss to what to do.

 _Go to sleep my baby  
_ _Close your pretty eyes  
Angels up above you  
Look down on you from the sky._

America's head snapped up in disbelief. Why would someone be singing at that moment? It really wasn't appropriate! The looks on the other nations' faces said the same thing.

 _Great big moon is shining  
Stars begin to glow  
It's time for all the tiny babies  
To go to sleep_

France was the first to realise what the song really was, and he turned to England, partially skeptical that the island nation would do such a thing. All eyes started to turn to England, most in shock, as they hadn't seen the softer side of England, who was stroking Russia's hair and singing, a soft expression on his face.

 _Go to sleep my baby  
Close those pretty eyes  
Angels are above you  
Keeping watch over you._

Russia was calming down, and his eyes opened blearily. France and Germany let go as the semi conscious nation took in the form above him. "Mama?" he whimpered pitifully. England just smiled, continuing to sing, quieter now that the noise had died down.

 _Big blue moon is shining  
Stars begin to peep  
Time for little tiny babies  
To go to sleep_

Russia's eyes slid closed as the song ended, and England continued to hum the tune until his breathing had evened out, and the creases in his face were gone. Even then, he remained by Russia's side, one hand still stroking Russia's hair. The island looked up, finally, and scowled at all the nations gathered in the doorway.

"Shouldn't you lot be in bed?" he snapped, eyeing up the colonies in particular, who immediately ran off to their rooms to avoid the wrath of their motherland. The other nations stood in amazement, their opinion of the island completely changed, even as England passed them, head held high and proud in the same manner he had always had it.

 **07/09/18: ack! Has it really been that long?! So sorry, I was on holiday then jet-lag and all that hit me like a bus... well here's a chapter anyway.**


	11. Interlude: France

'However motherhood comes to you, it's a miracle.'

* * *

France was not surprised, if he was being honest with himself. Although England hadn't always been a motherland, it was difficult for anyone - him included - to remember what England had been like before that. And even then, he could distinctly remember spying on England, seeing him pick up tiny bunnies and birds, rock them to sleep or care for them with a gentle expression on his face that he hadn't thought possible of the savage child.

Then years passed in a blur, and in a royal court he saw England once again, with a tiny brunette girl holding onto his legs, no older than 5. Inquiries revealed she was called Londinium, a fine name for a girl, the courtiers agreed. If only they knew how true the name was to her. And yet England himself was only 14 and France tried not to wonder just how she came into existence.

More years flew by, an Empire built, cared for, and lost... And Londinium dead by the end of the Second World War. Instead, London had risen from the ashes of Londinium, to usher in a new age. No personification of the capital accompanied this, although France (or anyone) wasn't quite sure how their existences worked, so no one could predict if there ever _would_ be a London.

The others were lucky their capitals were still alive, if traumatised and frightened beyond belief, but England truly had no one at that point, and began drinking more heavily. For all their closeness and being 'the married couple of Europe' France wasn't sure how to bring up Londinium, or any of their children for that matter, without starting a real fight, a real argument. It was a touchy subject, and he wasn't sure what to do. Sometimes, he thought it was a curse that England had been so nurturing, being both a man and a nation... For them, family would not last.

So when he saw that gentle expression on England's face and the lullaby sung so sweet, he could have laughed with joy. England had found someone to care for again, and Russia (whom he did not think so ill of) would finally be cared for. Perhaps Russia would stop England's alcoholism; perhaps England could reign in Russia's childlike violence. This union would be good for everyone.

He watched, with a smile, as England's eyes visibly softened, just for a moment, as they landed on Russia, who was slumped forwards a little, tired from nightmares. Given the fact he had tramped in 10 minutes late without the slightest hint of embarrassment, he did not remember what had happened the night before, although everyone had been talking about it all morning in hushed whispers. He saw how purposefully his longtime partner marched to the coffee machine, and left a steaming mug there just before Russia reached it. His smile grew wider as Russia started in surprise and sipped the coffee gratefully, even if he didn't currently know who it was from.

He chuckled, and moved towards England, ready to begin annoying him for the day, and thanked God one more time for the miracle before being hit in the face.


	12. A Discovery

'Dreaming of the day mom will see me and smile...'

* * *

Russia had pleasant dreams after the nightmare of being chased. Well, not pleasant but certainly comforting. He could hear a song, echoey and faint but soothing nonetheless, as he traipsed along a field of sunflowers. The sun was shining brightly, there wasn't a single cloud in the sky, and the sunflowers crinkled a little in the breeze. Every so often, Russia reached out and knocked one of the flowers, watching it fall and snap back upwards with a laugh.

It was still incredibly lonely.

Sometimes in his dream he would lie down and strain his ears to hear the song; soothing and sweet. Sometimes he felt a caress on his head, light and ghostly. He would call out, "Mama? Mama?" to the voice, and it would become softer, sweeter, as though smiling down benevolently on him, but never confirm. He kept it to himself, holding the secret of the dream to his chest as protectively as one of his bright sunflowers.

And he constantly, constantly had to remind himself - it was just a dream. Just a fantasy. He sipped the coffee left on the desk (that seemed to happen an awful lot nowadays) to awaken himself. He couldn't live in that world and drive himself mad with the possibility of what he could have had.

Halfway into the meeting, during the break, he put his head on the desk as everyone else filed out of the room, chattering, laughing... Ignoring him as usual. It was not an uncommon occurrence, but it stung every time, and not for the first time, he wished someone had invited him out to lunch. He had a lunch of his own (packed courtesy of his government) but he would happily abandon it if it meant someone genuinely inviting him.

Suddenly, soft light humming came somewhere to his left, and there was a single touch down his neck, gently massaging it. Russia nearly froze, but forced himself to keep breathing and remain still, giving the impression he had fallen asleep at the table. His head was lifted and a pillow slipped underneath it; a blanket was tucked around his shoulders, smoothing out invisible creases. The humming got closer and Russia realised -

\- It was the same one from his dreams.

The person, whoever it was, retracted their arms and stopped humming. The loss of the warmth was immense once he realised it was gone. The person moved away towards the door and once Russia was sure they weren't facing him, he lifted his head. He watched England's retreating figure with a little confusion, breathing in the smell of peppermint and grass, feeling it settle his erratic heartbeat to a sense of calm he had never experienced.


	13. Definition

'I am mum. I need no other label or prefix.'

* * *

Mother.

It's a word that defines a part of him, some might call it a big part, others might say it is non-existent. At first it was spoken by young voices, accompanied by the patter of tiny feet as they run - or waddle - towards him; Ignoring the strange looks he received from his men as their fierce captain became something else entirely, when he laid eyes on his children.

Despite not birthing them, in some cases not even being directly related to them, England feels strongly for those he raised. It's a feeling he imagines a human woman would have when she first lays her eyes on her child, the first rush of affection and amazement at the fragile life she has created. Except for him it's a never ending rush and sometimes it's so strong he is sick. "Morning sickness again?" France would tease, often earning him a head through a briefcase or a chair to the face.

England isn't quite sure he would define France as father (because that would mean admitting that the Frog means something to him, and he'll never do that on his _bloody English pride,_ dammit!) but the children do. "Papa! Daddy!" they call delightedly as he walks through the door, sashaying into the living room where England is doing his embroidery in relative peace, with Australia dozing in his lap, cuddling a toy koala bear.

"Honey, I'm home," he trills, eyes gleaming wickedly as their children hang off him, most notably tiny Canada squealing happily as he clutches his father's shirt from where he is hanging. England will only grumble lightly if the older ones are in the room, and won't react at all if the younger ones are there, instead smile and laugh with practiced ease while his eyes promise death.

It's a label that is tattered, beaten and faded with time and age and heartbreak. But it's still there and England knows that the small print is gaining a new name - _Russia. Ivan._ His heart feels whole again, beating impossibly loudly, and there is that rush again, so impossibly strong, stronger than anything he has ever felt, he is physically sick in the middle of the meeting. France meets his eyes knowingly as he is sick into the toilet, America throwing burgers at his head and Australia baiting Hong Kong with a snake (he tries to tell the Frog to get them to calm down but he can't get a word out in heaving up his gut).

He knows the rush is stronger than ever because he sees Russia as someone who needs to be looked after. England knows he had a bad, terrible childhood, that he's isolated and in desparate need of care. Sometimes, in his quietest moments, a thought drifts towards him, unbidden, of travelling east and not west, of struggling through the frozen tundra, and finding a small boy with violet eyes, small and emaciated, shaking with fright, who cries out for _mama..._

But it's too late, and even if he could change time, would he give up on knowing America, raising America? Guiltily, he thinks not. He holds onto the experience of raising America - any of his colonies really - like a high he can't recreate. The tears, the thrills, the laughter, everything - it's so important to him, and he hoards those memories greedily, like a banker might do to money, or a child might do to sweets.

He's still denying it, but his heart is already planning a new room in his house _(bloody ridiculous, when will he ever stay with me?)_ , it's noting what Russia's favourite foods are _(he wouldn't eat anything I give him anyway)_ it's screaming when he sees Russia sniffle or yawn _(I will not give him another blanket dammit)_. His heart is whole and beating again, the rush of life familiar and comforting. Is this what pregnant women feel?

"Angleterre, really, you should just eat my food. I mean, even you can't stand your own food," France says pompously, twirling a piece of hair between his fingers.

England scowls as he finally looks up from the toilet bowl. "America, stop throwing those grease traps! Hong Kong put those fireworks away and Australia leave him alone. Canada - what on Earth are you doing here? Go back to the meeting room sweetie."

Canada appears suddenly, making America scream and run out. "But _maman_ , you're sick," he protests softly.

"Non," France disagrees. "Angleterre is not sick. Just preparing, I think."

"Preparing?"

France - damn frog - smiles at England. "I think your mama will have a new child very soon.., and we will be parents again, right Angleterre?"

"I'm not letting you near him, he doesn't need your idiocy," grumbles England, before leaning back over the toilet, and continuing to be sick.

 **26/09/18: I've written up to chapter 25, just need to sort them into an order now...**


	14. Interlude: Canada

'A mother's love is instinctual, unconditional and forever.'

* * *

Canada might be invisible most of the time, even to France and England (his beloved _papa_ and _maman_ ) but he knew that when he needed it most, they'll both be there.

He sighed tiredly, watching the chaos in the meeting room as the speeches descended into petty squabbles. Immediately, he felt concern coming from England, who looked around, eyes sweeping over his son, trying to root out the sad child. Canada could laugh at how perceptive England is when it comes to his former colonies. He watched as England absent mindedly pulled France's hair, earning him a very weird moan (and several strange looks). His mother-nation scowled at the frog and turned back, eyes finally settling on Canada.

Canada felt uncomfortable as England's attention was diverted to him. For all that he wanted to be seen, it was weird to have all the attention on yourself, and he wondered how his brother could stand it. His motherland marched over purposefully, the frog following one step behind, peering at his baby Canada with worry.

"Pancake, what's wrong?" asked England.

"Just tired maman," Canada murmured, even as France gently fussed, running his fingers through Canada's hair.

"Hmmm, I'll make you a sleeping draught," England decided.

"Make sure it doesn't taste like your scones," France quipped. England swelled angrily for a moment before Canada yawned again, and they turned from 'France and England' to _'papa and maman'_ again. It's strange how fast they switch between the two personas. When he was little, Canada had been confused as to why his parents were so different around each other and others, but he came to learn that being a nation and being a person were two very different things. As such, he was not Canada but Matthew at that moment, basking in his parents' attention.

It is also completely instinctual, he realised. England didn't know who was hurting, but he knew one of his children were. Canada may be invisible to England (and the world) but Matthew was always on his mother's radar.

(He wasn't sure if Alfred's on that radar anymore. He thought maybe Alfred hovered on the edges.)

England's head snapped up again, and his gaze focused on Russia. Canada smiled. Russia wasn't so bad, and he wouldn't mind having the nation for a sort-of brother. He watched as England struggled to restrain himself, and France decided to help by creeping his arms around him (earning him an elbow to the face). He watched, quietly, as Russia and England's eyes met, and the whole world seemed to fall silent and still in that second; the second where they were both looking with such longing and need for each other, Canada wondered how they never found each other before.

The moment is gone again, as Russia broke eye contact to say something to his president and England looked away, no doubt to prevent an international incident - it wouldn't do anyone good if England was staring while Russia held a conversation with his president. But the longing remained, and England calmed himself by brushing away imaginary dirt on Canada's nose using an embroidered handkerchief. Canada let him, because he liked the attention and he knew England needed it.

Then France made a snipe about England's cooking and Canada just managed to escape before the corner of the room became a fighting cloud containing the two parent nations, while Germany yelled in the background. He shook his head in amusement, deciding to tie his brother's shoelaces while he wasn't looking and put the ensuing fall on Youtube.

 **13.10.18: Ack! Sorry for not posting last week, I forgot!**


	15. Baby Steps

'Little souls find their way to you, whether from your womb or somewhere else.'

* * *

Russia trudged down the stairs and out into the streets, grumbling a little. It had been 6 weeks since he last saw England (not that he was counting) and now his damned president had sent him out for milk. Milk! Him! The personification of Russia was out getting milk because his president needed his coffee like Russia needed sunflowers. And it was the middle of the night. Did his president not care about him? He could be killed out here!

(Forgoing the fact that he was 6ft and carrying a large metal pipe... and he was absolutely pissed).

He got the milk from the shop, handing the money over to the quaking Russian girl who looked as if he had just murdered her whole family. It was then he realised he had been chanting 'kolkolkol' all that time, and releasing a dark aura. He internally sighed, snatched the milk from the girl and stalked out.

"YOOOOOOOOO RUSSSIA! I MEAN, PRAY-VET, DUDE!"

 _Oh no. Oh, please God, no._ But he would recognise that terrible accent anywhere... "Hello, Amerika."

"Whatcha doing? Milk! Awesome! My president sent me too! Brrrr, it's so cold here! Is there a Mcdonalds nearby? Maybe we should set something on fire to get warm..."

 _How about you?_ Russia thought nastily as America continued to rant. His mind slowly shut down until he realised that if America was in his country then -

"Wotcher, America - oh. Hello Russia," said England as he approached. His eyes softened just a little as he was standing behind America, so there was no chance of being seen. "America, I was sent after you after I told your president there was a 96% chance you'd die... and it seems I was about to be proven right."

Russia opened his mouth to protest but realised, with a jolt, that England was teasing. His tone was a little cautious, but it was teasing nonetheless. America didn't seem to realise this as he began ranting about how he was a hero and Google would protect him. Russia smiled, dark aura fading.

"I'm sure you can make your own way back without getting killed. Your brother is lurking somewhere near the greenhouses, he'll help you."

"What are you gonna do? Also, which brother?"

"Australia, he needs somewhere warm to put those damn snakes of his... Anyway, I'll walk Russia back. Seems only fair, doesn't it? Cheerio, America."

England stepped forwards in place next to Russia and the two began walking off. "FROOT LOOPS TO YOU TOO! ALSO RUSSIA -"

 _"Nyet!"_

"DOE SID-DIAN-YAY!" He ran off into the night before Russia could launch his pipe at him for butchering his language.

"Don't be so upset, he can't even speak English right," England said, amused. His eyes softened completely in the dim light of the lamps as they ambled back together. "How have you been, Russia? How do you feel?"

"I'm... normal, I guess," Russia said, because 'fine' and 'normal' were two very different things where he was considered.

"Your headaches are gone? Not staring too long at the screens?"

"Yes, it's all fine now."

"That's good." They walked in silence for a while, but it was peaceful. Russia breathed in the scents of peppermint and tea and relaxed, despite it being dark. "You know, France and I hold a little gathering every year. It's the only thing I willingly co-operate with the frog on. You're welcome to come, if you wish."

Russia stopped and stared. England went up to Russia's front door and rung the bell. "Me? You're inviting me?"

"Yes. It's a little gathering, just for friends. I didn't see the point of leaving you out." The reasoning was logical, but England's expression told a different story. "Please come. France and I would love to have you. August 19, midday to one o'clock arrival."

"Russia, you have key, stupid, why you knocking on your... own... house..." the president looked sheepish as England raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well your security is terrible if you're opening the front door. I could have just murdered you. Also, your skylight is open and that security camera seems to be very interested in that bush over there. Good night, Mr President, Russia." England sounded way too cheerful as the president also came to that realisation too and disappeared into the house to scream at the FSB. "And of course he leaves the front door unmanned..." He patted Russia on the shoulder, laughing lightly, before walking off back into the night.

Russia went inside and put the date in his calendar while the president disconnected Mario Party (to the complaints of the FSB).


	16. Domesticity

'It doesn't matter how your children get to your family. What matters is that they get there.'

* * *

It seemed England had lied to him about the 'gathering just for friends' because all Russia could see were former colonies, France and England's, turning up at the door complaining and arguing with each other. England answered the door every time, casting his eyes a little a higher than their heads, as though he expected a taller guest, and looking disappointed every time he shut the door. Russia's heart told him that England was waiting for him, yet he still denied it.

The place was dreamlike, something Russia hadn't believed existed. It had a literal white picket fence, and the greenest grass he ever saw, along with beautifully kept flowerbeds dotting the edges, which had their own little fences to prevent balls and such running over them; gnomes were also dotted here and there (and Russia could have sworn he saw one move...). There was a white post box at the gate, littered with different coloured fingerprints, no doubt the colonies themselves, labelled 'Kirkland-Bonnefoy household'.

And the house! It was what Russia would describe as a very giant English cottage. It was white and pastel blue, with white steps leading up to the front double doors under the extended roof over the porch, where England was no doubt waiting. Large windows were methodically placed several inches apart starting from the doors, going - Russia imagined - right the way around the house. There was a second and third floor too, styled in a similar fashion, each with a balcony where Russia could see some colonies had spilled out onto, enjoying the good weather, or chasing others. The third floor had an open balcony instead of being covered by roof like the other floors, and sun beat down onto it, making it glitter. All in all it was very domestic.

Which, of course, made the winter nation uncomfortable. From where he was sitting, if he strained his ears, he could hear the distant shouts of colonies - younger ones - playing in the protected back garden, and the laughter of many more watching them or exchanging anecdotes. Canada suddenly burst through the front door, hurtling around the wrap-round porch, pursued by a seething Seychelles. Sealand followed with a camera, laughing. France hurried out too, wearing a pink frilly apron that said 'kiss the cook', looking worried as he pursued his three children, to diffuse the situation, perhaps. England appeared, tutting loudly in his usual combo of 'old man' clothes.

Without even thinking about it, Russia got up and went to the house. England smiled upon seeing him. "Russia! I'm so glad you came," he said with warmth. Russia carefully shut the tiny gate, going up to the doors where England was. He looked down, seeing the welcome mat, which said 'an old grump and a beautiful person live here.'

"It's France who's the grump if you ask me," grumbled England, ushering him into the house. "Clearly, I'm very handsome, don't you agree?"

"Um - " Russia hesitated, and England laughed good-naturedly.

"Actually don't answer that..." Russia turned to look at England properly, noticing he was wearing badges that said things like 'no.1 mum!' and 'best mum' on it. England blushed, "Oh - the children bring me such things, who am I to say no?"

"I bring vodka," he said, suddenly feeling very out-of-place. Clearly this was a family gathering, with children... and he brought alcohol. He held it out to England, who gave him a conspiratorial glance and took a swig from it before handing it back. Russia copied him, feeling the burn of the alcohol settle his aching nerves. "I'm going to need it aren't I?" he asked.

"Oh you will, but don't let France see. He's already locked up the rum cupboard, stupid frog..." as England began complaining again, leading him through to the living room, Russia already felt better - this was familiar territory. There was a crash and a scream, before crying started. "Oh - Russia, just make yourself at home, there's snacks on the table, and no I didn't make them!" England hurried off, leaving Russia alone. The alcohol was looking more appealing...

"What are you doing here?" Russia jumped and turned to see Wy looking at him. She tugged on his coat. "Did mum invite you? Why? Are you my brother now too?"

"I... I don't know, maybe," Russia said, the reality of being here hitting him hard. He was invited to a family gathering. Did that mean he was part of a family?

"Well, since you're here, you can play with me," she demanded and Russia found himself on the floor, playing 'Go Fish' with her. England appeared at the corners of his vision, placing down some pastries which they both absently nibbled on, focused on the game. Russia didn't see the pleased smile England gave Wy as she helped him relax. The man slipped out of the room again, going to his children, ready to start transitioning Russia into their family.


	17. A Step Closer

'There are no unwanted children. Just unfound families.'

* * *

England was snapping at his younger ones again, holding them by the ears, Gibraltar and Hong Kong if he remembered correctly. Russia watched with fascination.

Wy had been very nice to him, but he decided to leave her when she took out a very strange pack of cards and offered to play 'Exploding Snap' with him. He bumped into Australia, who brushed his presence off, asking Russia to help him find a (killer) koala bear. They found said bear with Canada's polar bear, the two playing together, Russia taking and sending a few pictures to Australia. He almost stepped on a small child as he left Australia, who claimed to be Northern Ireland, with ginger hair, freckles and an adorable smile.

France enlisted his help in the kitchen. Here he felt more comfortable, chatting to France like an old friend, laughing at jokes and innuendos. France had warmly told him that he was very welcome here, and England was the grump referred to in the welcome mat. There was some light arguing between England and France as England entered the kitchen, when France screamed 'Save the food!' before the milk next to England burst into literal flames. Russia frantically put it out while England bonked France on the head, muttering curses not too loudly as he had Northern Ireland on one hip, jutted out in a manner very effeminate. He looked faintly worried as his parent-nations argued.

BANG! "I win!" came Wy's victorious scream. England immediately looked harassed.

"I told you not to play Exploding Snap in the house, you'll scorch the furniture!" yelled England, disappearing.

"Um," Russia said.

"Exploding Snap is very safe, just loud and slightly fiery," France replied. Russia just nodded, bemused. Little did he know, these happenings would become very common for him...

* * *

A long while later, everyone was tucked in bed. England had (conveniently) forgot to mention that this seemed to be an overnight thing. The man himself had insisted quite ferociously that Russia stay the night. "What kind of parent would I be if I let you walk out in this cold?!" he exclaimed, taking Russia's coat off again, stowing his pipe away as Russia tried to pick it up. France seemed to be in on it too, shoving a croissant in the taller nation's mouth before he could protest.

"Last snack before bed!" he sang quite cheerily.

"I've told you not to feed them before bed, they'll turn into little gremlins!"

"That's before midnight, _mon lapin, qui?"_

Russia had decided he didn't want to part of the fight cloud that was most certainly going to descend upon the parent-nations, and quietly slipped upstairs to look for a room. He found one next to Northern Ireland's, who was very excited to have someone next to him, and took him through the various escape routes/weapons hidden in this particular room. (Russia spied a pipe in the weapons cabinet, and his heart warmed at the thought England must have _consciously_ placed it there for him.)

So there he was, not quite sure how he managed to get there, mulling over the day's events. He was bone tired from all the running around he had done with the little ones - because he was very good with children, despite what some might think - and he had been ready to go home. Northern Ireland had camped up next to him, almost as insistent as England (well they were related). He was fully conked out, curled into Russia's side like a tiny kitten. Russia was half afraid to fall asleep, in case he rolled over and crushed the tiny boy in his sleep.

A creaking at the door made him turn his head. England slipped in, wearing a long dark green robe, making his way over to the bed. "Can't sleep?" he murmured on seeing Russia awake.

"Afraid to," he replied, gesturing to the tiny boy. England tutted lightly.

"I'll take him back to his room," England said, gently lifting the young child into his arms. Russia watched him rock the boy for a moment, a gentle expression on his face. Once again, he was hit with longing for that type of warmth. North was so lucky, so blessed, to have even one parent.

England's eyes turned to him, a little hesitant, before he reached out and pet Russia on the head. Russia pulled away. "I'm not your son. I'm not even a child anymore," he said quietly.

"No," England agreed, and let his hand fall. There was a little more silence before he continued. "But people can get families at any age, at any stage in their life. I might not carry someone as big as you to bed or hold your hand when you cross the street. But do I stop being North's mother when he is grown? Do I stop being Canada's mother when he makes his own food?"

England looked away suddenly. "Have I stopped being America's mother, even though he is not my son anymore?" he whispered vulnerably. Russia wasn't sure what to say, and when England opened his eyes again, he seemed composed.

"No, I haven't. Motherhood is something completely abstract, and manifests itself in many different ways, for many different people. It's not limited by blood, or age, or circumstance. It is a driving force that goes beyond the limitations of humanity. It's accessible to everyone, however they need it."

England reached out again, and stroked Russia's hair (He was right - it was soft). Russia did not pull away this time, instead gazing up at England with apprehension and hope. "I can't be the mother who holds your hand and calms down your tantrums. But if you let yourself... You can have a family, Russia. It's never too late, especially for nations. We've still got thousands of years ahead of us. Thousands of years to start, don't you think?"

"Yes," Russia whispered, and shut his eyes as England began to sing a now familiar tune. North stirred in his arms, but snuggled further into his mother-nation as England's voice carried through the house, beautiful and soothing.

That night, in his field of sunflowers, there was a quaint English cottage on the horizon.


	18. The Ties that Bind Us

'You may not have my eyes or smile, but you have my heart.'

* * *

The next few days passed in a blur. Many of the other nations accepted his presence there, and slowly warmed up to him as he proved to be more than just the scary nation he was in meetings. Canada hung out with him a lot, mainly because his polar bear Kuma-Kaji-Kuli (or was it Kaji-Kuli-Kuma?) kept gnawing on his head. He apologised, a lot, even for apologising. They shared laments of cold weather and overbearing America ("At least you're on a separate land"), and enjoyed each other's company when they were watching Wy and Sealand play Exploding Snap, setting one of the shrubs on fire.

 _"My rosa caesia!"_ screeched England as he flapped a towel at it. Canada just watched the garden slowly descend into fire and chaos with a cheerfulness more reminiscent of his twin brother, making Russia roar with laughter. _"These are rare you know!"_

Thinking of America, he didn't seem to be at the gathering, which was a small relief, because he would bet his entire land that America would not approve of his presence. However he dared not ask, because bringing up America the other day had set the entire family on edge for several hours. That was the most subdued they had been.

So eventually they all went inside, and Russia could have sworn he saw a teenage Paris flying on a broomstick... Maybe his imagination was playing tricks on him. "How does Exploding Snap work anyway? Without destroying the cards, I mean."

"Oh, some magic thing," Wy said airily, then chased after Paris. Russia suddenly felt someone land on his chest, knocking him over, and stick something to his forehead. Realising it might be someone small (and pushing back the reaction that told him to smash their head in) he lay there. It was Sealand, who grinned at him.

"There, now you really are part of the family!" he announced, while Canada took one look at his face and started laughing. France came out of the reception area to see what the fuss was about and screamed, "Mon dieu!" on seeing his face too. Feeling a little worried, he reached up and felt...

A pair of eyebrows.

Russia facepalmed as France ran circles around him. "Mon dieu, we must get you to a doctor! I didn't know those were infectious! Do you feel faint? Or like you want to eat England's food? If I had known I never would have slept in the same bed as him..."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU'VE BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED?!" yowled England, hitting a pitch that would make bats uncomfortable. Another fight cloud descended (sixth one if he was counting correctly), when Canada pulled him up on his feet.

"Are you going to take them off?" asked Canada, as they went to the second floor balcony, which was thankfully quieter, where the slightly calmer nations like New Zealand were taking some time. Russia felt them again.

"I don't know... I feel so different from you all," he admitted. Ever since the night England had sung him to sleep, he felt as though he was bleeding words and emotions. "This actually makes me feel a little better... If a little horrified," he added. Canada smiled, tilting his head back, taking some of the sun in.

"You know he cares about you," Canada said. "In every meeting, he just turns to check on you. I heard from _Papa_ that he looks in on you at night too, when we're all together that is. It really doesn't matter that you're not related. I'm not directly related to half the nations - colonies - who are here, yet we all share the same parents.

The thing with _Maman_ is - when he loves you, he will love you deeply and completely. He will give you a small piece of his heart, and no matter how many times you may crush it, break it, tear it to pieces, it will reform, and at the end of the day it will still belong to you. There is nothing you can do to change that. If _Maman_ loves you, _Papa_ will love you. He will do anything for England to make him happy. And in time, I'm sure all of us will accept you in the family. You don't need blood ties, or even government ties to be a family. All that binds us is the love our parents give us."

The moment broke as Hong Kong ran out with Gibraltar onto the the smouldering front garden. Both of them had a glint in their eye as they began to light fireworks. One spiralled out of control and landed in the chimney, and a second later, there was an explosion from down below.

 _"See, this is why we can't have nice things!"_ roared England. The two laughed comfortably.

"I think I will enjoy having you as a sibling, Canada," he said quietly.

"I won't say welcome to the family just yet, because you're still finding your place here," Canada continued. "But if you ever feel like you're not meant to be here... Just look around you. We're all scattered to the winds, from all types of places and climates. You only need England's heart to belong here - and I think you've already got it."

 **18.11.18: Didn't post last week because it was remembrance Sunday, so it didn't seem appropriate... Besides I better get writing some more chapters, only a few pre-written ones left lol.**


	19. Trust and Tragedy

'A child born to another woman calls me mummy. The magnitude of that tragedy and the depth of that privilege is not lost on me.'

* * *

England slowly sipped his tea, shutting his eyes against the welcome breeze. His dress shirt was too stuffy for this heat, and the lunch break had been more than overdue, with sleepy, sweating nations running off to shower, or dunk their heads in cold water to wake themselves up. This cafe didn't do such bad tea. Not of the quality of his own, but well enough. And they had other things to do than serve a singular customer perfect tea, he supposed. Everyone had a business to run.

"It's a beautiful day, huh?"

He opened his eyes, expecting to see Russia, but it was Ukraine, shielding her eyes against the light, coming to sit opposite him. She waved off the waitress, waiting for England's reply.

"Yes, a very beautiful day," he stated. Russia had vaguely mentioned Ukraine had acted as a mother for him in his younger years, to the best of her ability. "How are you?"

"I'm fine as one can be, nowadays. How are you?"

"I am well, enjoying the fine weather as always," England said, setting his teacup down. The two sat in an amicable silence for a little while, reveling in the good weather and cheerful people around them. There was nothing like happy humanity to raise a nation's spirits.

"Russia would like this sunshine," Ukraine commented offhandedly. England raised an eyebrow at her comment but nodded in agreement. "He likes a lot of things that are bright and sunny. He likes the warmth and the sounds of people. He likes being surrounded by people. I think it reassures him that he can still connect to humanity."

"Are you trying to tell me something, Ukraine?" asked England. Ukraine stared at him for a moment.

"The other day I called Russia's house, only to get a maid tell me that he was out. Out? With whom? Then I find it is you who has brought him from there... You who invited him into your white picket fantasy... Gave him something I couldn't, I still can't. My country wants me to break off from Russia. They want me to be part of Europe. They think this is beneficial, and it will be... But matters of the heart are not so easily resolved are they, England?"

England looked at the girl, suddenly seeing - just like him - a teenager thrust into parenthood, taking care of a child she wasn't quite sure how to, struggling to advance herself and the weight of another nation - and later on, trying to talk to those nations who left you broken. "No, Ukraine. They are not."

"If things had been just a little different... If nations weren't so cruel... Russia would have been a very different person, I believe. Someone I could have saved from the horrors of young nationhood. Someone who could have been a child instead of a nation." She smiled sadly. "It is hard to see the ones you consider children go - even harder when you have to leave them. I know what you are trying to do England, and I understand. From mother to mother, I understand. What I'm trying to say is..."

She slid a piece of paper towards him, standing up as she did so, turning away. "If I loved him any less, I wouldn't be able to break my own heart," she murmured. "I suppose this belongs to you now... And I can only hope one day he will forgive me." She walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

England picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was a sketch of a sunflower field, dated long ago, drawn in the fashion of a young child. On the back, in the same, near illegible handwriting, was written: _Mother's flower field is bright and sunny!_

Quietly, he refolded the paper where it was worn from folding and unfolding, by loving hands gazing at it again and again, and wondered if he had just witnessed a great sorrow or gained a massive, _literal_ birth right.


	20. Interlude: USA

'All that I am, and all that I hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.'

* * *

 _I'm the hero!_

 _Yes, Alfie, you're the hero._

Those words had been spoken so many times to him. When he was falling asleep - _go fight monsters in your dreams, hero_ \- when he was running around, chasing bunnies - _you're a bunny-hero Alfred!_ \- when he put on his clothes by himself every morning or brushed his own teeth - _wow what a brave, grown up hero you are!_ \- those words were spoken so often, America believed them to their fullest. He was America the Hero, America the Beautiful, America...

... The Free.

 _"I... I can't do it..."_

 _"What happened to you Britain? You used to be so great..."_

It was like coming up from under water, taking in a sharp breath as he snapped back to reality, and dropped the carved figure in his hands. The figure was one of resin - a beautiful young woman in a long period-typical dress, flowing blonde locks held back by a few tresses, gazing adoringly at a newborn baby in her arms. In her dress were set crystals, glittering and dancing as though celebrating new life. The figure rolled away from him, landing with a heavy thud.

It was ironic, he supposed, kneeling and opening the other, forgotten chest further. Ironic that he should love these figurines now, these things given to him to symbolise love - _lost love now_ \- when really, he should have treasured them as a child. The chest contained more female figurines, all blonde with a little blond boy by her side. A little notebook full of pressed flowers, carefully and lovingly preserved. A pair of silver rings, carved with an image of the moon. A small handmade pouch with intricate embroidery on the sides. And, of course, a set of handkerchiefs, crumpled at the very bottom.

The figurines were him and England, he knew that now. At the time he had been confused as to why his (seemingly) very much male guardian would give him such a thing, but he had learnt that gender roles and gender was very flexible for nations, to the point where he called England 'mother' and the 'motherland.' But, in those times, it would be unorthodox to associate the man with a child, so a woman it was. The handkerchiefs were a different story, made to perfection by oft-bleeding hands from war for his child - for him, America.

But it's all gone now, and America is left with _England,_ not mom, left with a (not so) _special relationship_ , not that special bond. England - the nation - is not dead, yet something died on that battlefield. His _mother_ \- the one he knew before that moment - is gone, a man made into an angel, sitting on the old rocking chair deep within this storage cupboard, still humming a soft tune to a sleepy child who cannot yet utter the word independence...

And he knows that all his confidence, all his aspirations of freedom and justice - they are his mother's, who rests somewhere in this cupboard and inside England's heart. His mother filled his head with dreams. Maybe one day he'll see him again, when everyone smiles from their eyes. Maybe he'll see him again when all the children laugh from their hearts.

When everyone is united with him, when they reach Eden, his mother will be waiting for him there, on that rocking chair, and he'll open up his arms with a laugh, and America will run towards him, feel himself get smaller and younger, the age and years and pain fading away until he lands safely in those arms, and they'll watch the cornfields sway in the breeze again...

 **07/12/18: Hey I'm not dead! But until I write more chapters I'll be posting once every two weeks instead of every week. To the guest reviewer on the last chapter: I know where you're coming from, but this is more of a feels story rather than historically accurate story. I'll try to keep within the realms of reality as much as I can.**


	21. Boundaries Broken

'The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.'

* * *

As they waved their children off, France side-eyed England, who immediately realised. "If so much as a finger comes in my direction, you will lose it," he threatened, even while he was smiling pleasantly to Gibraltar as she got in Spain's car.

 _"Mon lapin,_ you give me so little credit," sighed France, flicking his hair over his shoulder. He had recently dyed it brown, and was thinking of putting it in a small man bun. He would bare the relentless teasing of his _lapin_ with grace (as usual) because he would look fabulous (no change there). "Kiss kiss, Michelle, give my love to your government!"

"Bye bye darling! - You have a track record of wondering hands, wanker - Jack, don't forget your snake box, and don't set them on airport security, I will NOT bail you out of jail, nation status be damned!"

"K, mum! See ya daddy-o!" yelled Australia back, waving his snake box. He scooped up a random python and chucked it in the taxi (making the poor taxi man scream) before climbing in himself.

Russia stumbled out soon after, face covered in stickers. "Northern Ireland," he said by way of an explanation. England tore them off quickly and straightened him out with efficiency that would have put Germany to shame. But instead of confiscating the stickers, he carefully stuck them on Russia's suitcase (which he picked up on day two), using a sneaky bit of magic to make sure they permanently stuck. Russia shuffled his feet like a kid as England gently fussed.

"Now call me when you get home, and remember to have a hot meal and straight to bed, OK? I've packed up some of the frog's food so you can eat before you get on the plane, I've put your vitamins there as well..." France let him fuss a little longer, knowing Russia was unused to and grateful for the attention, before intervening.

"Angleterre calm down, you'll smother the poor man before he's left the house," France barbed. "And we will see you at the next world meeting in 2 months, Russia?"

"Yes, I will be there -"

"But call before then! I'm not going two bloody months without a call, and if I do, I will turn up on your doorstep in the middle of the night and -"

"And what? Darn his socks?" France scoffed. England growled, letting go of Russia, letting him slip into the waiting taxi as a fight cloud descended. France waved cheerfully as England hit him on the head.

"Er, should we help?" came a voice outside the fight cloud.

"No, that's normal... At least for them, anyway..." Russia's voice faded as the taxi drove away.

Several hours later, Northern Ireland and Paris were in bed, fast asleep and it was just them, sitting in the living room, France reading a newspaper and England finishing some embroidery. Slowly, he reached out and gently placed a hand on England's leg, resulting in a needle through the skin. "Angleterre, you wound me... Literally," murmured France, mindful of the sleeping children upstairs.

"I guess that would teach you a lesson," England said smugly. France got up and patched his hand up, pausing when he came back in.

England really was ugly, wasn't he? Scrawny, bushy eyebrows, a hideous frown... And yet France would choose no one else. He knew he wasn't the best of fathers - his still rocky relationship with Canada said as much - yet England entrusted him with his children, those he'd fiercely defend from all harm with his life. France could not get within an inch of England without suffering some injury, even though others had bedded the nation. Yet they were gone and here he was, making the same, thousand year old jibes, receiving the same, thousand year old responses. France had something more precious - he had England's quiet faith in him, an unwavering trust to at least do right by their young ones.

A thousand years and England still believed someone could replace him. How very funny, and very sad, a testament to how England had been used and abused too many times to count. But France must remain unwavering in his love for the smaller nation, because if England was the glue holding their family together (and sticking Russia into it) then he was the tape that held England together.

They were too old now, for love confessions and all the passion of youth. France lamented that loss almost everyday, when he would take a separate room from his Angleterre, when they wouldn't - and couldn't - hold hands in public, when a casual 'I love you' couldn't spill forth from lips as they passed each other. He wished he had been more active, more passionate - if only he had courage.

But it was too late for all of that, and he had spent decades trying not to think about the desparate kiss given in the middle of a burning Paris as the Nazis approached to capture him, when their world seemed sure to end and there was no salvation. It could have been a turning point for them - France had been all but ready for him - but Londinium was gone, burnt to death in England's arms, and the nation shut himself off once more. Thus, the time was lost and they were back to a relative normal. Russia could be the miracle they needed once more, but France could wait.

"So I was thinking of wearing a man bun..."

"Don't start."

 **07/01/19: Happy New Year and don't murder me! I was away on business and couldn't find the time to update... Basically just flying through Europe trying to meet all the VIPs of my dad's business and awkwardly flirt with boys who think I'll call them... Yeah right my heart belongs to Hetalia. Enjoy!**


	22. Jewel

'The jewel of the sky is the sun; the jewel of the house is the child.'

* * *

The sun really was something, England thought, wearing a straw hat and rubber gloves as he began to dispose of the burnt plants from their front garden. The white post box remained untouched, back in place after France had risked a fiery death to retrieve it from the gate (he would never admit how grateful he was for that). He chucked the last of the plants (rare breeds too, he lamented) into the bag and dragged them to the pavement. The rubbish trucks would be here soon, and they would take them off his hands. He swiped his forehead of sweat, sighing. It really was a miracle the house hadn't burnt down, although the living room had suffered a lot of scorching courtesy of Exploding Snap and Hong Kong's fireworks. France was currently cleaning that up with Paris and Northern Ireland (England would not let children roam over a potentially flammable area).

He heard a burst of laughter from the house and smiled with nostalgia. The house used to be full of sounds like that. England visited his colonies abroad, but he also brought them all home to bond and get to know one another. He remembered he them being so excited for sleepovers and stories, jumping all over the place and each other. Tiny Canada being shy around his boisterous brothers, Seychelles taking her first steps towards France, giggling... He shook his head as the house fell quiet once more. It suddenly seemed so dull; even the house had lost it's glitter and life. It always was like this after they left, the first time and every time after that. The ache of seeing them go, the anxiety of seeing them go never faded.

He went back inside, seeing the living room mostly cleaned, and France repainting the walls to hide the scorch marks. Northern Ireland shrieked with joy on seeing him and jumped on him happily. "We painted the walls! Look look look!" And it was true, little green and red handprints lined the bottom of the blue walls, courtesy of Paris and North. England smiled.

"They're very pretty," he complimented, "But I think someone's got sticky green hands now!" he threw the boy in the air, who laughed happily as he landed back in England's arms. England put him down and sent the two younger ones off to wash their hands for lunch.

"Are you ever going to tell Aidan that you're not his mother?" asked France casually.

"Are you ever going to tell Adrienne that I'm not her mother?" England shot back, kneeling beside him and helping him paint.

"Touche," France said. "I suppose it would just confuse them. They're so young, the wouldn't understand - even though they are older than normal."

"Actually, Aidan is coming onto his first century soon, in a couple of years in fact. Maybe we should plan something special?" suggested England.

"I'll get Paris to -" France ducked as she zoomed by on a broomstick. _"Paris! Arrêtez en vol que chose infernale!"_

 _"Papa, mais ç'est amusant!"_

 _"Vous allez enlever la tête de quelqu'un!"_

"Your father's right, you'll kill someone flying that fast, it doesn't matter how much amusement it brings you," England said sternly, "I said I'd take you to the flying pitches later, so go and play with your brother."

 _"Maman, je suis 16, Aidan n'a même pas 6 ans!"_ complained Paris.

"Then set the table will you? We'll have lunch in a minute," England replied. Paris huffed and left. "That girl..."

"She has been around since we were teenagers, young teenagers at that," France said, amused. "She's older than America." England grumbled in response. "But you wouldn't have it any other way, would you? Without our little diamonds... and another one that I possess, although it's a lot bigg-"

"No one cares, you cheese-eating monkey!"

"Honhonhon!"


	23. Difficulties

'Love one another and you will be happy. It's as simple and as difficult as that.'

* * *

England still remembered the bluest skies he had ever seen, rolling hills, and further north, snowy mountaintops and glistening branches. And on another continent, a wide open plain with a few trees, sun beating down as people danced and played. And somewhere else, the trickling of a river, the humidity of a dense forest, the crash of a waterfall.

But it wasn't this he treasured, although it was a welcome sight. No, it was the child with sky blue eyes rolling down those hills that he valued, the tiny, child footprints left into the snow by his brother he wished he could preserve. The boundless energy of a koala-obsessed boy was what he wanted to record on camera, and the wonder on a Chinese boy's face as he reached to the water, floating gently down the river, spray of the fall misting over them and their straw hats...

England blinked and the memories were gone. He was so sentimental sometimes. Those children were gone now, and Russia wasn't even a child anymore, although he was in need of the comfort that England could give. And didn't he feel a twinge of guilt whenever he thought that maybe his intentions towards the boy were just selfish. Was he full of love or longing? Did he want to give or take? He didn't want to hurt Russia, but if he wasn't sure of his own intentions towards the boy, then what could he guarantee?

And his own people... He couldn't forget them. They didn't necessarily hate Russians anymore - in fact most young people were amicable towards them - but there was still a part of him that wanted to wrap his hands around the white throat, watch the life fade from his eyes. He had to be careful, he couldn't lose his temper with Russia like he had done a few times with his colonies. It may trigger him, make him feel unwanted again, and England's heart wouldn't allow that.

It also wouldn't allow a blond-haired, blue-eyed nation with a damned stupid laugh into there either. Despite himself, England started thinking about _it_ again. The event, which they never talked about, never mentioned, even though it was less than 100 years ago. He had often wondered why he rejected him so many times, even though he had been there through everything, knew more about England's weak spots than anything else.

He also wondered why France had never made any moves. Dammit! He thought about the name! Stupid frog, making him feel stupid bloody feelings, just typical of him to ruin _everything!_ He was going to get it! He shook out of his anger, so automatic it felt fake, and sipped his tea instead. They had been so young once, so vicious in their anger, charging into wars with an enthusiasm of youth, and making up just as quickly. So turbulent, violent and so very real. And those moments of trembling passion, denied feelings, pride and swords clashing in an entanglement of wild emotions.

They were old now, and all of it was gone, only diplomacy and that one moment, literally encased in a ring of fire with sweat, mud, and god knows what else pouring off their faces as they abandoned all pretences in what they thought was a final goodbye. Germany dragging France away as England screamed, held back by Poland and Belgium. Nothing more than a memory, their world changing but not ending once again.

As though thinking about him summoned him (and it probably did, the damn bloody Frenchman), France entered and smiled at him, winking. England smiled softly back, watching him sit down nearby and pick up the newspaper. They spoke no words. Eventually, ritualistically, France reached out and placed a hand on England's armchair, not touching him directly. Instead of scalding him with his tea, like usual, he did not react, shifting one of his own elbows closer to the other man.

Perhaps things didn't have to be as difficult as he thought. Love could be hard, but to someone as emotional as him, as full of dreams as him, it was definitely worth it, in all it's forms. Hopefully, both of them could experience that together, and maybe pass that love to Russia, another child, all over again.


	24. The One Truth

'The only love that I truly believe in is a mother's love for her children.'

* * *

It was night time once more, and England did his usual rounds, feeling the piece of paper crinkle against his pocket. He spotted Ukraine down the corridor, dressed for bed, who smiled tiredly at him and disappeared after Belarus. Once again he felt a sense of understanding (and dare he say it, motherly affection) towards the girl. He shook himself out of his musings, slipping into Canada's room, where France was in the process of tucking the nation in. He shoved the nation out of the way and corrected the tucking in, so that poor Canada was very much sleeping in a burrito by the time they were finished.

"Wine bastard, get out of my face," he threatened.

"I think your eyebrows are blocking my way," France shot back, dodging the slap that followed and finding refuge in Seychelles' room, where he knew England would not start violence in front of his colony. England scowled at his (perceived) cowardice and went to Russia's room, who looked up.

"England?"

"Russia, get yourself to bed right now," England ordered, taking his pen from him and shooing him towards the bathroom.

"But I need to finish these reports!"

"If you go to bed now, you can get a good eight hours in and start again at 6," England said persuasively, then added, "I'll throw those reports at your president the next time I see him if you don't go to bed right now. Making a nation stay up so late, I don't know what he's thinking..." Russia yawned at the thought of bed, making England raise an eyebrow. Feeling sheepish, he went and washed up, coming back to find his bed ready for him, and a steaming cup of...

"Milk?" asked Russia, taking it from him.

"It helps soothe the organs," England said wisely.

"Um, is that even factually correct?"

"Oh just drink it!" and Russia did, feeling a lot sleepier afterwards. He lay back, curling into his pillow and relaxing, feeling England start to...

"What are you doing?" he murmured sleepily, forcing an eye open as England pulled the covers around him.

"I'm... I'm tucking you in..."

"What's that?"

England swallowed past the lump in his throat. "It's just something to make sure you're warm," he said, grateful he didn't have to speak up, as he knew his voice would crack. "Just go to sleep, Russia..." But the nation had already fallen asleep. He slipped out of the room quietly, shutting the door behind him.

"Angleterre?"

"Do you know that boy has never been tucked into bed in his life?! Or had warm milk before sleeping?! Who does that kind of thing to a child, _a child,_ France?!" He hissed suddenly, hands curling into fists.

France smiled sadly.

"I swore, _I swore,_ when I grew up I would never, never in my life treat my colonies - treat any child - with any hate or anger, the same way we were treated... I swore to end that cycle of abuse and - and all this time! All this time, I thought I had achieved that goal, when actually..." He took a deep shuddering breath. "I failed. I failed as a nation. I failed as a _mother,_ France."

"No, no you did not," murmured France, taking England into his arms, who gripped him tightly. "We are not too late for him. We can still do this, just like we have done many times before... And now we will be better parents than ever, for we have the benefit of hindsight and centuries of experience. With the right amount of TLC, Russia will put that past behind him and move forwards."

"I should have left America to you, and gone east," he said, his voice muffled in France's shirt. "That way we could have protected everyone."

"Oh mon lapin," sighed France. "You cannot protect them all the time, just as you cannot protect everyone. The only thing we can do is pick up the pieces, and love him better now."

"I will. I will. He's mine," declared England to France's chest. France let this declaration sink in for a few moments, knowing this miracle was working it's magic already. There was a light snore from his chest, and he looked down to see England asleep. He smiled - England always did overwork himself, even as he preached others not to.

"And you are mine forever, my love," France murmured tenderly, picking his longtime partner up, and walking off to bed.

* * *

In the morning, everyone would be awakened by a loud screech, and the sound of a French nation being pummeled into the ground.


	25. Together

'It is easier to build strong children than repair a broken man.'

* * *

Not for the first time, Russia wakes with a final scream dying on his lips. Behind the deep violet of his eyes, if you could see past it, there is the fading splash of blood on pure white snow, a scene already forgotten from his early childhood, but forever ingrained into his memory. His shoulders seize, pull forwards as though he is being stabbed. His hands are half curled into the mattress, digging away from the pain. His entire body jerks, painfully, fitfully, overworked muscles screaming for release.

Then there is a noise - the sound of running feet and the glimmer of a green robe as they come hurtling in, making for his bedside. Russia's immediate instinct is to lash out at the intruder, but England deftly catches his wrist, meeting his eyes sternly yet maternally. He sinks into the mattress next to Russia as the man himself begins to relax, exhaustion winning over.

He is not ready to sleep just yet though, the blood behind his eyes not yet sunken into the snow. With languid eyes he watches England take out a handkerchief and wipe his forehead of the sweat. Russia wants to say something, anything, but his body is pulling itself down into the ocean of sleep, and all he can offer is a weak mewl, one that has England shifting a little closer, more concern alighting his eyes. England pulls Russia closer so the wintry nation can nestle into his side with a soft sigh.

This is unusual. Ever since _this_ (and by _this_ he means _England_ ) his body calms down almost immediately after his nightmares. Before it was hours before the visions would stop, before his head stopped swimming, before the dark reds and purples finally gave away to the weak light dragging itself painfully through the window. Now however, all he needs is a burst of green and suddenly the world rights itself. It's unnerving, upsetting... But comforting.

Somewhere in his mind, as his eyes drift closed, he knows he will be terribly embarrassed in the morning when he wakes to find his head in England's lap, the man himself reading some novel or report. But England will not say a word, just smooth his hair back as he leaves the bed (taking, Russia thinks, most of the warmth with him) and remind him of whatever meeting or obligation he has on for that day.

He knows the nightmares will not stop. They won't ever stop. But suddenly, the prospect of that doesn't seem as daunting as it was before.


	26. A Place

'A mother is she who can take the place of all others, but whose place no one else can take.'

* * *

He wasn't coming.

By now, Russia had convinced himself of this fact. He had walked around the sprawling green space, staying close to the borders in case a shock of gold hair (and even more shocking eyebrows) would come gliding in, always unruffled. Russia always thought that strange - he had this idea that mothers were infinitely harassed and flying from one place to another. But no matter what, even if he was trying to put out one of his fires on the lawn, he retained a measure of grace. No, not grace. Control. He wondered if that helped maintain the Empire so long, then his eyes strayed back to the paved roads around, and his heart sank a little more.

"Sorry I'm late." England, in the exact way he pictured it, came gliding in, somehow appearing calm even with a ketchup stain on his lapel, a coffee stain on his collar, and a brush of chipped lip gloss on his knee, bright pink against the black material. His hair was ruffled and there were fading nicks on his hands, bruising at the knuckles. No doubt he had got into a fight again, maybe while caring for one of the younger nations; that made him knee France in the face, smudging France's lipstick, overbalancing slightly and spilling his coffee; then one of the colonies would express concern or pull them apart, perhaps with a ketchup blob on one of their fingers.

Russia wondered how he had got to know England so well all of a sudden, even as a smile jumped to his lips, shy and open. Another feeling he wasn't used to having was the sudden surge of affection. He suspected England felt it too, the feeling of being whole again. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"It would be remiss of me to decline an invitation from one of my allies," England replied, eyes twinkling. A little bubble of humour rose in his throat, and he copied England's smile. For a while, they wandered aimlessly around, pausing at beautiful statues or as the gardeners worked on flowerbeds. They came to rest on a bench opposite an engraving of runes. No recognition came to Russia's mind as he stared at it, trying to make sense of it.

"Do you know the story?"

England's voice broke him out of his musings. He shook his head. "There's a story behind this?"

"Yes," England said, looking back at the stone. "It's an English artefact. It reads 'you, who knows my heart because you have seen and laid upon it.' It was said that a young woman fell in love with an unscrupulous man... One who took advantage of her affections... They were together a while, at the disapproval of all her family and village, until he found another's affection, and left her. Her family encouraged her to get rid of her baby, to start again. They told her to leave the child in the woods, to be torn apart by the wolves."

Russia was listening intently, his face turned to England as he continued to speak.

"She couldn't bring herself to do it, however. Instead she ran to a Roman outpost... and begged them to take the child from her. The Romans, though not the nicest people, and believe me I know that better than most, agreed to take the child, and send him back once he had turned 16. She went back and started her new life, but she never forgot her child. She sat on the edge of her village, marked by a stone, and waited for him everyday once she knew he came of age. She waited and waited and waited... And soon she was old, too old to wait any longer. Her final act was this message, the message she had uttered to him before leaving him behind, that she implored the Romans to tell him: you, who knows my heart because you have seen and laid upon it."

"Did he ever find her?" Russia asked, an almost desparate hope in his voice.

"I don't know," England replied softly. "Maybe he knew his origins, and of his aggrieved mother. Maybe he knew nothing except the Roman way of life. Her story is known to few and her name is long forgotten... as is the outcome of this tale... yet her hope has resonated through the centuries, forever etched into a stone and into history. The boundless hope of being reunited... the fleeting joy of holding a child in her arms still fresh in her memory as she sat, day by day, year after year. The story, quite rightly I think, has no end."

"Why?" Asked Russia naively.

"Because motherhood is forever," England said simply. "But not just for the mother. For the child too. Just as the mother will hold her children to her heart, her children reserve a space for her too. She is eternal, and no one in history can take her place, although she may appear in different names and forms."

Russia tentatively reached over and took one of England's hands into his, marvelling at the change he had gone through in these past few months. "I think I understand that last bit," he murmured, a silent admission of what they already knew; an acknowledgment of importance.

Meanwhile, unseen, a nation ducked behind a tree, watching with wide eyes the interaction - and _touching_ \- happening between the two.


	27. To Know

'It is not until you become a mother that your judgement slowly turns to compassion and understanding.'

* * *

Despite what many may think, England did not hate his brothers. In fact, he did not truly hate anyone. There were little moments when he lost his self control - moments where the resentment and anger of his older citizens, the so-called righteous anger of his younger citizens take hold of him, make him lash out at everyone. But those moments are few, fewer still since the new century - he supposes it's the casual openness and acceptance of his youngest citizens of whatever - or rather, whoever came their way.

The younger nations have less control over their impulses. He sees this when Russia and America sneer and snarl at each other, facing off like two lions imposing on one another's territory. The rest of the world is undeniably nervous of the two superpowers facing each other - knowing that annihilation is at the press of a button - but England remains calm, lifting his teacup to his lips as he watches the two carefully. He sees what they don't see: the rigid set of America's shoulders, the slight tightening around the eyes, the dark smudges under Russia's eyes, the upset whirling behind the anger.

"Hey, Britain, do something!" exclaims someone, and England has to roll his eyes. Why does it fall to him to break them up? As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he's practically insignificant. For a moment, he feels contemptuous, not moving, wanting someone else to sort it out. But then it turns to a world weariness, one that is present in his actions as he calmly puts his tea down, lifts himself out of the chair with the air of a mother going to stop another petty fight between children. Not that he knows that of course, and scowls at the snigger France lets out, shaking slightly behind his newspaper, missing the significant look the other nations pass between them.

"America, step away from Russia," England says patiently. America does not listen, still in Russia's face, hissing things that he can't quite hear. England steps forwards, places a hand on his back, applying a light pressure just like he used to when the child was small, and required comfort in the middle of the night. England immediately dismisses that thought even as America unconsciously relaxes his shoulders for the first time today. _He is not a child,_ he tells himself. _Not your child. Not anymore. You're his ally. You have a duty to do this._

America steps back, England's hand warm and light on his back. "You stay in your little hell-circle," he sneers. He feels a pang as England's hand drops from his back, and he steps away again.

"Why you pompous little - " Russia steps forwards, hand going beneath his coat, a flash of metal pipe making America wrap his fingers around his gun -

"Russia!" England says a little more harshly. He ignores the intake of breath from the other nations watching. He's never spoken to Russia in their little fights, always placated America while Russia sat on the other side of the room and shot them dark looks. Although, thinking back on it, there may have been a little jealousy in those looks, and England berates himself for not seeing it earlier.

Russia pauses too, looking startled. It makes him look so young that England feels a jolt even as he crosses to Russia's side, not touching him in the presence of so many outside eyes, but softening his gaze a little. His eyes stray pointedly to the smudges under Russia's eyes, to the scrumple of the suit below his coat, to the weary slump in his otherwise rigid carriage. Although his face does not change expression, in his eyes the anger and upset melts away into an infant apology, inclining his head a little.

The rest of the world watches in whispers, and he can feel America's confused, angry stare on his back. He turns his head a little more - away from the watchers and towards Russia - softening his gaze completely, raising a motherly eyebrow at him, one that promises, _I'll get to you later._ Russia acquiesces without comment, going back to his seat, expression unreadable. England lets the mask slip back into face before turning to face America and the world.

"I believe there is a meeting to be held?" he says coldly, eyes boring into Germany, who jumps into his role. He strides back to America, taking him by the arm like a small child, and guides him to his seat. He gives the nation a cold stare, daring him to interrupt the meeting again and takes his place beside France, who rustles his newspaper enough for them to exchange a look unnoticed by the world as the meeting begins again, one that says, _we'll get to him later._


End file.
